


Revenant

by Geishacomb



Series: Recumbent [2]
Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015), Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: BB-9E is a sassy shit, Clone!Hux, Darth Tantrum and his Evil Space Ginger, F/M, Hux is Not Nice, Kylo Ren Has Issues, M/M, Sequel to Recumbent, Space dictators in love 2K18
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-10
Updated: 2018-01-17
Packaged: 2019-03-03 04:52:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13333899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Geishacomb/pseuds/Geishacomb
Summary: Grand Marshall Hux is riding high. He's succeeded in seducing his new Supreme Leader,  the First Order is rich, and the Resistance is routed. So why can’t he sleep?OR: Hux is possessed by Snoke and somehow everybody failed to notice. Sequel to Recumbent.





	1. Dissent

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Welcome to my humble, dusty corner of the Kylux fandom! If you haven’t yet read the prequel to this fic, Recumbent, I humbly suggest you do so now. Otherwise, none of this is likely to make a lick of sense.
> 
> Please note, there's been a timeskip of approx six months between the end of Recumbent, and this chapter.
> 
> Text between +Blah+ is droid speak.  
> Text between ~Blah~ is spoken telepathically.
> 
> I’ll be experimenting with a lot more POVs in this instalment! First chapter is BB-9E.

BB-9E was a true fanatic.

The most fervently loyal of all the mechanical subjects faithful to the First Order, if it said so itself. And it did. Often. Much to the chagrin of its fellow droids.

Obsessive and prim, there was none more qualified than it to thwart the plans of those dastardly Rebels. None more committed to order, peace and immaculately clean corridor floors.

Once upon a time, BB-9E had been nought but a simple Astromech droid. An oil junky, a repair unit! But those days were over. The droid had been called to a higher purpose: the Supreme Leader Kylo Renben had plucked him from obscurity, and raised him to GREATNESS.

BB-9E accessed it's memory banks, camera-lens blinking with fond nostalgia:

“Just what in Hells are you doing to that chrome nerfball, Ren?” these were the first words the droid had heard in its new, enlightened state.

The Supreme Leader had cupped BB in his stately, pale hands and shrugged, continuing to meticulously re-program his new disciple “Improving it.”

Pale, bare ankles had passed close by BB-9E’s sensors, and it had scooted back, trilling a warning as the Grand Marshall towelled his damp skin dry “I trust you won’t attempt to improve ME the next time you stick your fingers up my arse.”

The Supreme Leader had straightened, and BB had sensed a sudden shift in the chemical imbalance of hormones secreting into the air.

The droid had been somewhat perturbed (or, as perturbed as a droid could be) when the knight seemingly attacked the Marshall, tossing him to the bed, despite the fact it knew they were allies. Flesh-walkers did the most illogical things, sometimes.

“There’s a Grand Marshall 2.0?” Kylo Ren had said, voice seemingly malfunctioning, dropping to a ragged, deep growl “Can I remove the incessant nagging subroutine...?”

The Marshall had huffed the ‘laugh’ sound, indicating pleasure and scorn, and shoved at the Supreme Leader without any true force (how fruitless and strange the man was: he constantly seemed to say one thing, and mean another!) “Don’t try to be coy, Ren, it doesn’t suit you.”

What followed was incredibly unhygienic. It scandalised the newly anointed BB-9E, as it hummed and whirred about the room, collecting discarded towels and retrieving fallen datapads, haughtily.

After the cacophony of saliva and noise dimmed, the Marshall had made a startled noise as BB-9E whizzed past his foot “YOU FORGOT TO TURN THE KRIFFING DROID OFF?!”

“Hush, Hux. It’s not like it’s sentient.”

“It has a CAMERA FOR AN EYE, Ren!”

“You’re such a prude.”

Since that day, only two lifeforms encompassed BB-9E's whole world.

First: Supreme Leader Kylo Ren. Alias: Ben. Further aliases: brat, nerfrod, manchild, force toddler, etc. But those designations were off-limits (and unwise).  
BB-9E chose to call him SL-Renben, for clarity. SL-Renben was his favourite.

Then, there was Grand Marshall Armitage Hux, alias: Hux. Further aliases: bastard, space-diva, arrogant motherfether. (These designations are also unwise).  


BB-9E had christened the man GM-Hux. Not that he knew, because he was stupid and couldn't understand BB without a translator.

Back in the present, BB-9E is knocked from its reminiscences by an incoming notification. SL-Renben is deep in contemplation, meditating within his Vader Pod. BB knows that SL-Renben does NOT like to be disturbed when in the Vader Pod.

(Alias: Grandaddy Egg of Contemplation, as GM-Hux refers to it).

However the droid had also been instructed to override any such prejudices when it comes to messages from ST-4173.

ST-4173 was the third, lesser lifeform that governed BB-9E’s daily routine. Alias: Strife, Captain. Recently promoted from Lieutenant. Physical age, 20 rotations. Time since creation, 10 rotations. 

Clone. Originator: A. Hux, Grand Marshall.

The Captain was not liked by SL-Renben, so much as tolerated. Mostly due to his unique prodigal status. The Marshall had had Strife created soon after the death of his Father, Brendol Hux, in the classified incident on Tuanal. It had been a time of great dissent amongst the Order, BB reflected, disapproving.

39 assassinations, that were officially documented, that is. Rampant infighting, almost civil war.

It was the fashion at the time to have a clone created for oneself, whether it be as an accessory, for protection, curiosity, or even downright narcissism. Some, BB noted, even whored their clones out. Very unsanitary. The Marshall, then General, had listed ST-4173’s purpose as organ donor and potential body-double. 

Sensible reasoning.

While some treated their newest acquisition akin to a pet, the General had largely ignored Strife. His only paternal action had been to personally design the conditioning programme for the clone: unquestioning loyalty to first, himself, and then, the Order. Expansive combat training. Some small education in politics and other niceties.

GM-Hux had then left Strife to graduate the Initiate program neglected, signing up only to receive notice that the clone had been terminated. Strife wasn’t. It seemed a talent for survival was endemic in the Hux’ genetic code.

In the rotation 24 ABY, the General had discreetly summoned Strife to the Finaliser. Admiral Basra was plotting rather blatantly to have him blown-up, and the General had no desire to be caught in the fire or crossfire.

And so Strife was, instead.

The extensive fifth-strata burns sustained to his body should have been enough to kill him, BB noted. The clone’s lower legs had also been crushed by falling debris, and so had been amputated below the knee. But Strife, again, survived.

Rather than having the now largely useless clone terminated, the Marshall chose thereafter to have Strife join his personal entourage. BB was at a loss to explain why. Fleshy sentiment, perhaps.

The Marshall had been forced to expose the true nature of Captain Strife to the Supreme Leader after an unfortunate encounter in the bathroom on deck 9. SL-Renben had been more than a little surprised to depart a meeting with the Marshall, only to run into his mirror image not 3 doors down. 

This had precipitated one of the only REAL arguments BB-9E had ever witnessed:

“A CLONE?! You had a karking CLONE made of yourself and never deigned to tell me?!”

“It hardly seemed relevant. And this was long before – your time.”

“I thought-“

“What? That I had a long lost twin? A younger brother? A son? Don’t be RIDICULOUS, Ren, even you aren’t that stupid!”

“I demand it be terminated at ONCE!”

“You will do nothing of the sort! That clone is my property-“

“Everything you own is MINE, Hux.”

“Ah, yes. How could I forget.”

“Why?”

“Why, what?”

“Why keep it? It’s crippled. It doesn’t even look like you, anymore. It’s useless.”

“Because: there are very few lifeforms in the galaxy I can depend upon for total, unquestioning loyalty, my dear. You yourself are doing a kriffing fine job of jeopardising YOUR position in that category, right now.”

“You pity it.”

“I do NOT.”

“Admit that you pity it, and I’ll let it live.”

“....very well. I pity it. It didn’t ask to be born, and nor did I. Now get out of my sight.”

The Supreme Leader, of course, had not obeyed. That mess had been a particular bugger to clean up, BB-9E recalled. Torn, sodden material and broken glass everywhere.

Nonetheless, Captain Strife had proved a discreet and loyal addition to BB’s family pod. In terms of organic lifeform tradition, BB considered SL-Renben husband, GM-Hux wife, and ST-4173...adopted step-nephew...?

And so, when the Captain calls, BB scuttles up to the gaping jaws of the pod, and trills pompously:

+SL-Renben! Incoming transmission from Captain Strife!+

The Supreme Leader’s eyes fly open, but he is otherwise immaculately still “Patch it through.”

The Captain’s voice is light and clipped “Supreme Leader-”

SL-Renben interrupts, as is his habit (he’s a very, very important man, so that’s alright) “Have you found him?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Alive?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Unharmed?”

“Yes, sir.”

SL-Renben’s left eyebrow twitches, indicating irritation “....clothed?”

The Captain clears his throat, discreetly “After a fashion sir.”

The Supreme Leader surges to his feet. BB-9E chirps encouragement, and rattles over to prepare the door. Behind it, SL-Renben growls, in a tone that usually precipitates consoles on fire and cowering inferiors “Where.”

“Data archive closet A, bench 30, sir.” There’s a clink and rattle of armour as Captain Strife shifts, uncomfortably “Shall I-“

The Supreme Leader sweeps through the barely-opened blast doors. BB-9E careens after him “No. Don’t touch him.”

BB-9E counts twenty tics of silence, until his notification aerial pipes up, again “Yes, sir. Shall I return to my other duties?”

“No, Captain. Stand guard.”

“Yes, sir.”

The droid snapped back to attention as it slammed into the rear of SL-Renben’s heel, as the Supreme Leader drew to a sharp halt outside the Data Archives. A pair of metallic heels, unplated, because what would be the point of armouring mechanical legs, snapped together “Supreme Leader.”

Captain Strife stepped neatly aside, glancing up and down the corridor to secure the perimeter as SL-Renben swept inside. BB-9E followed.

The Grand Marshall lay neatly sprawled on the floor, just a few clics inside the dimmed room. Well, not so much a room as an endless corridor, filled with row upon row of glistening holo-banks, spinning and recording their data with studious abandon. There was an unnatural blue hue cast across every object in the room, including GM-Hux’ prone form.

BB-9E ran a frantic scan, and noted the gentle rise and fall of the man’s chest and the lanquid thunder of his heartbeat, with some relief.

“There you are.” The Supreme Leader said, softly, in a tone utilised only 0.03% of the time, and only ever in the presence of GM-Hux.

The droid trundled closer, processing the purpling bruises beneath the Marshall’s closed eyes and the chalkiness of his pallor. Diagnosis: severe exhaustion. Some small dehydration. The man had, thankfully, gained the weight the Supreme Leader had demanded, however. This was evident, because the Marshall was barefoot and dressed still in sleep fatigues, despite the hour.

SL-Renben drops to his knees, and slides cupped hands beneath the Marshall’s back and knees. Tugs the boneless collection of limbs into his lap, and presses his mouth and nose to the man’s hair, inhaling “You are such an immense burden to me.”

He seems angry: but his relief is also palpable and solid and evident even to a lowly droid.

+Does the Supreme Leader Renben require assistance lifting GM-Hux?+ BB-9E chirps, helpfully. It quails as SL-Renben shoots it an angry look “I didn’t mean it literally, you stupid tin can.”

“...Ren...?”

GM-Hux’ translucent eyelashes flutter, and a pale palm pats the Supreme Leader’s face “M’tired. Put me down.”

“No.” The Supreme Leader snaps, tightening his grip as the Marshall’s body bows with exhaustion “You can’t sleep here, Hux.”

The man’s features contort, crossly “Can do wh’tever I want, nerfrod...”

His head dips suddenly against SL-Renben’s shoulder. The Supreme Leader shakes him, once, sharply “Hux.”

+GM-Hux has lost consciousness, SL-Renben!+

“I can SEE that.” The Supreme Leader snaps, standing abruptly “Captain. Fetch me an eight-set of sedative shots, then return to your duties.”

ST-4173 appears hallowed in the doorway, features uplit “I already have them. Sir.”

SL-Renben nods, not paying true attention; he snatches the pack of hypo-dispensers when the Captain proffers them “Go. Attend the council in our absence and report back on proceedings.”

BB-9E revolves it’s camera to examine the two, genetically identical lifeforms far above him. 

SL-Renben was correct. They did not look much alike. Identical features, obviously. The difference in age was also obvious. The Captain was shorter and, despite their matching skeletal structures, broader. He had lived a life flush with exercise and nutrition, and the results were clear.

ST-4173 also had much darker hair. Still red, but the colour of burnt molasses. Presumably because it had never seen the sun. 

And then there was the unmistakable scarring, smooth but deathly white, stretching from the base of the clone’s left collar all the way up into the hairline. A crumpled ear, his left eye pastel-green and milky with reduced sight.

“Council meeting.” The Captain let out a slow breath, eyebrows twitching “How thrilling. I can barely contain my excitement. Sir.”

The Supreme Leader leant in close, his lips curling back to reveal large, white teeth “Careful, clone, or I’ll have your sass reconditioned.”

The Captain visibly paled even further “Sorry, sir.”

The Supreme Leader adjusted his grip on the Grand Marshall and swept from the room, setting an impossibly long stride. BB-9E squawked, and hurried to keep up.

They returned directly to GM-Hux’ quarters – although, BB-9E had never known it to be anything other than shared with SL-Renben. The droid set about it’s usual tasks, locking the door, fetching water from the refresher, sweeping for any untoward devices.

The Supreme Leader lowered the Marshall to the bed, lifting the sheets and arranging them neatly across the man’s chest like a shroud. BB-9E noted that SL-Renben took far greater care and gentleness, when he knew GM-Hux was not watching. Yet another illogical pattern in his behaviour.

“I locked the door.” The Supreme Leader stated, scowling.

+Affirmative, SL-Renben.+

“With a six digit rotating CODE.”

BB-9E rolled over to sit at SL-Renben’s feet +Affirmative. GM-Hux bypassed it.+

The Supreme Leader sat heavily down beside the Marshall’s prone, pale forearm. Lifted his hand and pressed the back of it against GM-Hux’ forehead. BB-9E made a low, sad noise of concern +Should I summon a medic, SL-Renben?+

“No.”

Silence. The Marshall nudges his nose into the bowl of the Supreme Leader’s palm, eyes fluttering. SL-Renben growls at him, accusing “....sometimes, I think you do this just to spite me, you arrogant sithspit.”

“BB-9E. Send me all the footage from the cameras in this suite over the past three rotations.”

+Affirmative.+

SL-Renben stands, sharply, as though he has a new designated purpose “He does NOT leave this room until I return.” The droid fells the gaze of its master fall upon it like a blade “Fail in this, and I’ll split you into a trillion shards and repurpose you as a lampshade. Got that, droid?!”

+TRIPLE AFFIRMATIVE SL-RENBEN!+

“....Ben...?”

The Supreme Leader’s nostrils flare. He snaps the protective clip on the sedative-shot open, sliding the plastic away “Shh.” Cups the Marshall’s cheek and presses the needle into his neck with a soft hiss “Sleep.”

SL-Renben watches the other man relax, slowly, a soft sound escaping from his chapped lips. He passes a hand over his own face, and BB-9E notes, startled, that the Supreme Leader is shaking.

SL-Renben presses his lips fiercely between the Marshall’s eyebrows “...need you. Goodnight, Hux.”

And then he is gone.


	2. Gemini

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N: In which Captain Strife feels like a marriage counsellor, in space, and is the proud founder of the Kylo Ren Fanclub. 
> 
> Strife POV! Next time, we return to our much-missed Ginger Space Nazi's narrative :')

Captain Strife was a soldier, not a diplomat. 

He liked things to be kept simple: shoot here. Go there. Assassinate this pompous kriffhole. Fetch the Supreme Leader’s dry cleaning from the launderette bay. Hastily have said dry cleaning REPLACED when it turns out it was put in a mixed-cycle with the Latrine Crew fatigues. (The Latrine Crew Fatiques are pink).

Sure, some days he felt more like a glorified marriage counsellor than a respected and valued member of the Order but, hey. He could always be dead. Or he could be Lieutenant Mitaka, and nobody wanted that. Not even Mitaka wanted that. 

His perfect day was one kicked off with a pot of caf potent enough to poison a cohort, and a nice, neat little list of orders. So when the Grand Marshall had had the audacity to go wandering in his silk pajamas, AGAIN, it had rather ruined the Captain’s morning. 

It didn’t help that the plum bastard got a kiss and a cuddle from the Supreme Leader for his transgressions, while the poor Captain barely got a shred of gratitude for the many clics he’d spent frantically trying to locate the man. 

“Why thank you, Captain” he muttered to himself, in a gruff parody of the Supreme Leader’s voice, stomping down corridor 98-AY with perhaps a little more force than was necessary “Thank you so much for spending your ENTIRE morning finding my not-wife, you are a credit to the Order and we’d like to offer you a week’s shore leave and a thousand fresh pearl-cakes for your trouble...”

He loved sweet treats. The Marshall hated them. Odd, that. Perhaps Hux preferred his dessert as he preferred his men: dark, bitter and marinated in salt. 

“Grand Marshall still indisposed, Captain?”

Strife came to a screeching halt outside the council meeting room, and shot Admiral-Whatever-The-Kriff a scathing look. He racked his brain. Stupid hat, fat face, jowls that flapped like sacks in the breeze. Uhm...

“The Marshall is busy, Admiral...” kark it, he’d take a wild guess “...Dice? VICE. Admiral Vice.”

The Arkanesian’s face turned the colour of sour blue-buttermilk “It’s pronounced Vee-chay, you ill educated little troll.”

The Captain offered the Admiral a dazzling smile with gritted teeth that cracked like sugarglass “Apologies, SIR.”

The Admiral leered, unpleasantly “Do please pass on our most sincere well-wishes to the Marshall.” Strife snorted; yeah, like Hells “We miss him dearly at council.”

Insufferable, brownnosing creep. Strife hoped the man fell into an engine vent and died SCREAMING. 

The room fell into an uncomfortable hush as the Captain strode over to the Marshall’s empty chair, and plopped himself into it, reclining a little and tucking his legs beneath his arse. The mechanical pistons in his lower legs creaked and hissed, rippling the artificial mecha-scales that extended from knee to toe. 

No need for artificial skin, the Marshall had said. If a kick from the Captain’s foot could kill a man, people should know about it.

Strife rested his chin on his palm and said, bored “The Supreme Leader requests an update on the construction of Mooneater Base.”

A ripple of malcontent spread palpably across the room. 

The Captain examined his nails, and glanced about. He’d figured there would be at least a drink’s cabinet, given this was an officer’s lounge. Apparently not. Kriffing sithspit, how did the Marshall do this sober?!

After a long silence, some foolhardy Colonel whose name Strife had forgotten surged to her feet  
“You are NOT the Grand Marshall, Strife, though you have the misfortune to share his face.” She rested her palms flat on the smooth conference table, sneering “You can demand nothing of us....clone.”

....alright then.

Strife had kicked his chair to the floor and flown across the table before his mind had had the chance to process what his TEMPER was telling him to do “You’re right. I’m not.”

He was crouched on the table, the muzzle of his C96 blaster (affectionately nicknamed, Millie II) deep-throating the unfortunate Colonel’s slack jaw.

The Captain slid the safety off, grinning madly “He’d probably think twice before shooting you in the head.”

“ST-4173.” 

The Captain froze.

To the Grand Marshall’s credit, he didn’t look TOTALLY like a nerf herd ran him over. Close, though. His uniform was immaculate, his hair perfectly coifed. Strife supposed he only noticed the indentations beneath his eyes and the cake of pigment-gel because he knew it was there.

He immediately leapt from the table and stood to attention. The Marshall eyed him for a long moment. Walked, slowly, over to him. Slid behind his left shoulder “Your enthusiasm is....much appreciated.”

A muscle in Strife’s cheek jumped “Thank you, Grand Marshall.” His knuckles turned bloodless against the blaster’s grip “Permission to cave her kriffing head in...?”

The Marshall clipped his ear, hard. It hurt “No.” Strife rubbed his cheek, swallowing a pout “Heel. And pick up my chair, brat.”

The Captain nodded, and hurried to do so. Felt the static in his mind recede at the Marshall’s presence. He felt better. Everything was under control, now.

Although, the Supreme Leader was going to kill him. Kill them both. No, never, he wouldn’t hurt the Marshall. He might tie him to the bed like a concubine, though. Or lock him in some high tower like a damsel. This motherfether. What the kriff was doing out of bed, after...? And HOW did he...?

The Grand Marshall took his seat imperiously once Strife had righted the chair, and stood respectfully behind it, hands clasped “You must forgive the Captain, gentlemen. Ladies. Everything inbetween.” Strife shifted, uneasily “He lacks the niceties of my upbringing. And alas. He shares my temper. Tis an inherited trait.”

The council resumed. Strife resorted to counting bantha jumping over fences in his head, to keep awake. And wondered what was for lunch. Pavlovian pudding, he hoped...

“Captain.”

The Marshall was glaring. Uh-oh. People were filing out. The meeting was over? Thank the non-existent deities for THAT. His originator swept from the room with his usual pomp and melodrama, and Strife hurried to keep up. 

"He’s gonna murder you for being out of bed, you know." He muttered, as soon as they were out of earshot of the assorted masses “Sir.”

The Marshall shot him a look that could petrify a Rylothian water-snake, and snapped, witheringly "Do shut UP, Captain. I pay you to do what I say, not dole out ill-conceived nuggets of wisdom."

Strife knew all about being ill-conceived. He holstered his blaster ruefully, falling into step just behind the Marshall "You don't pay me at all."

"You're still alive, aren't you?" 

"I'm eternally grateful." 

"I swear I didn't program you to be like this."

"Nurture is a cruel mistress."

The Marshall growled, a vein throbbing in his temple "I'm sending you for a high rinse reconditioning, you ungrateful little nerfrod." 

The Captain found himself somewhat alarmed: Hux really should be careful, he’d get wrinkles, frowning like that all day “Come with me. We’ll be training until 0700 clics.”

Strife groaned “But the Supreme Leader said-“

The Marshall rounded on him, utilising what little height he had over his clone to tower over the younger lifeform “I don’t CARE what Ren said, you are loyal to me and you will do as I say!”

Yes, true. But the Marshall didn’t keep Strife around just so he could be like any other loyal flunky. Also, the man seemed to be determined to avoid self-preservation like the plague. I mean, really? The Supreme Leader could crush planets. With his magic BRAIN. (Or something: Strife wasn’t really a details man). 

“Yes, sir.” He muttered, resigned. There was a long stretch of quiet as they strode towards training bay 9. 

Strife fervently hoped that the Marshall had eaten, at least “Have you considered the possibility that he may be trying to express affection? Defend your wellbeing? Prevent your untimely demise?”

Hux fixed him with a suspicious look, as they entered the deserted training bay “I don’t recall you being Kylo Ren’s number one fan, Strife.”

The Captain cocked his head, stripping his outer armour and dumping it in a disorderly pile, just because he knew it would annoy the other man “Well, not when he’s choking you to death, no.”

The Marshall snorted, dismissively. Shed his greatcoat and boots, and wandered over to the refresher and programming unit to review the routines “Nonsense. That’s simple horseplay, now. I have it all under control.” 

Strife rolled his eyes and began readying the array of weaponry stacked neatly against the opposing wall “Said Wilhuff Tarkin just before the battle of Yavin...”

“What?!” Hux whirled on his clone, irate “And pick that kriffing armour up, the floor is NOT a laundry chute!”

Conceding, the Captain did so, dutifully retrieving the Marshall’s dropped clothes, as well “What will it be, sir? Running? Shooting? Hand to hand? Single blade combat? Double?” he cracked his neck, sharply, smirking as the Marshall winced “You’re not going to beat me, you know.”

Hux snorted, stripping off his gloves and selecting a simple practice saber from the rack “And why not? I have more experience.”

“I’m younger.”

“I’m taller.”

“I’ve been TRAINED.” 

Hux smirked “I have depth perception.”

The Captain scowled, exasperated “Why are you like this?!”

“Why are YOU!”

They glowered at one another. The Captain raised his own practice saber and utilised his free hand to make an obscenely rude gesture at his ascendant. The Marshall’s jaw set "Oh, grow up, will you, you insufferable carbon-copy."

Strife raised an eyebrow "You do know I'm 10?"

“Enough.” The Marshall slammed the weapon down against his clone’s in a long, graceless arc “You never show Ren this level of disrespect!”

Strife shrugged, rolling his shoulders and settling into a defensive stance “He scares me.”

“And I don’t?”

The Captain licks his lips, and opts, foolishly, for honesty “....no.”

The Marshall’s lip curls, and Strife’s heart did an embarrassing double-flip in his chest “Let’s change that, shall we?”

...uh oh.

So, as it turned out, the Marshall did indeed have more experience. And a frankly disturbing amount of enthusiasm for beating the sithspit out of his mirror image (that little nugget should probably be added to his psych file, Strife mused). 

Some exhaustive clics and severe bruising later, the Captain slammed into the floor with a saber to his gut and a severe dent to his pride. 

The Marshall’s hair was damp with sweat. He was panting, hard, but evenly. Strife glowered up at him, feeling really quite morose "Well? What do you have to say for yourself?" 

Strife glowered, folded his arms and replied, petulantly "You're not my real Mother and you never will be."

The Marshall opened his mouth. But just at that moment, the floor shuddered. Identical skulls snapped up, alarmed. High above them, the enormous wall-mounted laser canons, utilised in target practice and advanced combat drills, turned, slowly, to face them.

Strife swallowed. With a whirr, and a clunk, a dozen beady scarlet eyes blinked themselves awake. And took aim.

“Well, that’s not normal.” The Captain noted, quite unnecessarily. 

Hux grabbed the back of his neck and snarled “DOWN!” as all Hells broke loose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: I drew my big dumb space baby! Linky: bit.ly/2Ey1XfK. Please be kind, my drawing skills are far inferior to my ability to string a sentence together XD


	3. Sisyphus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N: In which Hux is shocked to discover that Kylo Ren is, in fact, mortal, and has to face reality (but not really).
> 
> OR: Local Trash Nazi has it BAD for emotionally stunted Gothchild.

The barrage was endless. The vacuous air sang with heat and motion, blaster bolts ricocheting off the walls and ceiling in an immense cacophony of imminent death.

Beside him, Captain Strife managed to summarise the situation with pithy, if crude accuracy “Sithspitting son of a nerfcunting-“

The Marshall wasted a single, precious moment in what could well be his penultimate clics in this fair galaxy, to smartly cuff his clone upside the head “Language!"

"Oh, now you care." Strife shot back, teeth gritted. Hux did not deign this with a response.

Where had the brat learnt such verbal garbage?! Not from himself, of that he was certain. The Marshall scowled as he hefted the largest and most ominous-looking gun he could find onto his shoulder, and took aim at the nearest cannon. He had a sneaking suspicion that Phasma was the culprit, there. She was certainly responsible for the Captain’s gambling habit.

The drinking problem, he was barely ashamed to admit, may be hereditary. 

All jesting aside: this was a kriffing dire situation. 

They had taken refuge behind a makeshift barricade of cargo-containers and discarded maintenance panels, but it was far from safe. The Marshall pursed his lips, and elbowed the damp snarls of escaped hair from his forehead.

“It’s not going to stop unless we shut it off, is it!” the Captain snarled above the noise, hunched impossibly close to the floor beneath a craggy shelter of scorched metal. 

Hux shook his head, lips pressed into a grim line “No. It’s programmed thus, unfortunately.”

Strife bit his lip, his single responsive eye wide and a little frantic “But the control panel’s up THERE!”

He jabbed to the control pod far, far above their heads; Hux rolled his eyes and snapped “Yes, thank you for that utterly useless piece of intel, Captain!”

“I don’t see you coming up with any bright ideas!”

The Marshall scowled, wincing as he withdrew his foot from the sear of an incoming shot just in time “You make a dash for it. I’ll cover you.”

“As if! That’s suicide!”

“I’ll ensure you have a mediocre funeral. Tasteful flowers, holovids, that sort of thing.”

“...I really hate you.”

Who was responsible?! This was no accident, of that, there was no doubt. He knew that he and Ren should have dealt with their little uprising issue before that affair on Canto Bight. Now, the rot had had time to ferment, to grow. Their adversaries room to breathe and plot. This was the result. What a karking mess. 

He licked his lips, chest heavy and gaunt, as though tar congealed there. This was on him. Ren was the brawn, the power, the cherished weapon which he, Hux wielded against opposition. If he died here, it was his failing.

And he’d have broken his promise. Ill-made and regretted, though it was. 

Hux had a sudden impression of another place, in a prior time. When he had stood around the conference table during the Raijin incident – and Ren – marvellous, indomitable Ren – had cupped the whole ire of the enemy in his hands and tossed it back at them like it was nothing.

Oh. Oh, no. The Marshall’s heart leapt into his throat "It's a trap." 

At his back, Strife panted, mouth twisted and forearms slick with sweat "I can SEE that, Marshall!" 

"Not for us."

Hux’ blood ran cold. His head felt heavy, as though made of stone. No. He would not allow this to happen. He had to-

~Hux?! Where are you!~

Was it strange to say he could taste Ren, when he spoke like this? It slipped down his throat like honey and amberspice, that unique blend of deep eyes and bent nose and dankness. Like fresh earth after a rain. 

It was his, he thought: somewhere between the before and after, he had gained something to lose. Rather foolish and pigheaded of him, really. 

The Marshall inhaled sharply, desperate, jealous, and desolate. His limbs shook and his bones ground together as he projected a frantic miscellany of warning out, out, OUT ~Ren, NO, you karksucking gundark-fether, stay exactly where you are-!~

The blast doors slammed open. The Supreme Leader’s immense, ragged form barrelled in, graceless and unstoppable. 

The noise, abruptly, ceased.

The Marshall heard himself roar before his mind had given his mouth autonomy to speak “Ren, NO-!” 

A small, cylindrical, metal object dropped neatly from the ceiling and rolled, wistfully, across to lie at the Supreme Leader’s feet. 

Silence. Then, a click. A whirr. The cylinder began to rise, to rotate. Drift arduously upwards in a long, straight line, to hover tantalisingly before Ren’s face.

The Captain’s grip tightened on his gun with a ominous creak. The cylinder split open and peeled back, revealing – something - and emitted a blood-curdling, ear-shredding shriek. 

And then, Ren was SCREAMING. 

He crumpled to the floor like his foundations had buckled beneath him, limbs crashing raw and unprotected against the hard surface. And the noise, oh Gods, the noise. His jaw hung open, chest rattling with the force of his howling, like a dying beast.

The Marshall had never moved so fast in his life. 

“REN!!!” he damn near collided with the knight, hands folding, clumsily, over Ren’s, which were clutching his skull as though trying to cave it in “Ren, stop. STOP.” He prised fruitlessly at those pale, familiar fingers, blood singing in his ears.

The knight’s entire body shook. It was as if he was literally tearing himself apart, rent into a dozen rancid chunks. His cries had dwindled to sobs, gut-wrenching, tripping over bubbles of froth in his throat.

Hux knew this feeling. Like an old nemesis, forgotten. It was terror. Clean, unfettered. It crowded every corner of him until he felt he, too, would explode.

Hux curled firm arms around Ren’s damp neck, squeezing, gently, so gently “What is it? Let – let me help.” He didn’t know what he was saying, didn’t know what to DO, he just, he wanted – he had to- “Let me SEE.”

And oh, wasn’t that poor choice of words just deliciously ironic...? Because he couldn’t. Not like Ren had, for him. He was dull and useless as a stone. 

He shoved his fingers harshly between Ren’s, now tearing so hard at his hair that his scalp bled, and squeezed “Ben.” Ducked down and pushed his forehead against the knight’s, coaxing “...Ben.”

There was a rattle of metal. Beside him, Strife was toeing the forgotten cylinder with a wary foot “Don’t TOUCH it, Captain!”

Strife stiffened, shooting Hux a panicked glance “But we have to get it away!”

True. But...

Ren’s wet nose had found Hux’ neck, and he was wheezing, harshly, fingers awkwardly curling and uncurling against the Marshall’s. Like an infant searching for its kin. 

The Marshall pushed his nails gently against the knight’s poor, sore scalp, eliciting a quiet gurgle from the man’s enormous, bent back “I think the damage has been done.”

The Captain nodded, expression grim. Marched over to the still open blast doors, and yelled “BB! Get over here, you cowardly hunk of junk!”

Hux exhaled, feeling drained of all vitality. He shook with exhaustion, or perhaps that was Ren. He slid his arms beneath the knight’s armpits, and dragged the Supreme Leader’s upper torso, awkwardly, against his chest.

Ren immediately folded against him, spent, shuddering, his face finding Hux’ belly and pushing against it, suffocatingly close. Hux swallowed. It was a terrible parody of how Ren was after their – nightly exploits. 

“Supreme Leader.” He murmured, smoothing his palms over the soft crown of Ren’s skull “Ren. Look at me.”

Nothing. He waited. The knight, though he would never admit it, found it difficult to ignore a direct demand of him. Hux knew this.

The juts of Ren’s spine contorted and shuddered beneath the material of his tunic. The Marshall slid his palm firmly down the length of it, as though pulling the central twine of a puppet. As if summoned, Ren’s head, finally, rose. 

His face was blotchy and white as Hothian snow. He was crying, silently now. The Marshall’s heart gave an enormous wrench, as though it had been cut bodily from his chest. 

Hux inhaled, lips twitching “There. That’s good. Good boy.” Slid his palms up to cup the Ren’s jaw “Breathe, for me. You can do it.” Ren obeyed, like a lamb; pushed against Hux’ palms with mild desperation, eyes wide, pupils almost swallowed in them.

There was a long hush. The Marshall realised, past dignity, that he was gently rocking his ridiculous, precious burden, awkwardly. They had been made to maim. Not comfort. 

“I need you, you big, foolish lump.” He admonished, hoarsely. It felt like a question. It felt like a command, too. Ren made a quiet, disgusting, snuffling noise. 

“We need to get him out of here.” The Captain said, suddenly, and for once, the Marshall was utterly grateful for him.

“Yes. Help me.” He pushed his hair back with a trembling, determined palm “That THING-“

The clone took one of Ren’s limp biceps between his hands, and lifted; Hux mirrored him, dragging Ren’s arm over his neck “BB has it. He’s running diagnostics.”

The Supreme Leader swayed, ominously, ankles bent. Hux’ heart did that terrible, nauseating SLAM, again, as though trying to escape. Ren’s cheek found his shoulder, and it seemed to settle him, a little.

“Yes. Well, good.” The Marshall cleared his throat, squeezing the knight’s wrist between his fingers “Come, Ren, sweetheart. That’s it.”

The endearment had fallen out of him, unbidden, like an ill-fitting jewel from an aging crown. He set his jaw. And decided not to overthink it. 

His Mother had called him that, once. In another lifetime. 

Captain Strife, blessedly and with a rare wisdom, said nothing.

They bore Ren, without discussion or agreement, silently back to the Marshall’s quarters. It was not the nearest nor the most logical of destinations, but...it made sense. There was shelter to be had, there. Perhaps all of Ren’s religious nonsense had rubbed off on him.

They deposited Ren’s stricken form on the bed with as much gentleness as they could manage, and the knight instantly began to curl in upon himself, like a petrified insect. Hux grappled for the man’s hands, and laced their fingers again “Fetch a medical droid.”

Strife swiftly left, without a word. Hux felt another pang of – something, for the clone. This was turning into a no good, terrible, very very bad, day.

See what you’ve done to me, you horrible creature?! Was what he wanted to say. Instead, he settled swiftly beside his Supreme Leader on his (their) bed “Ren? What hurts? Speak to me.” And then, almost inaudibly “Please.” 

Ren’s dark eyes rolled slowly up to meet his. They seemed – distant. Hazy, the pupils blown wide, as though drugged. He seemed to stare straight through the Marshall. 

"General....?” he croaked, and Hux started “...when did you cut your hair?"

And then "Where's Anakin?” the knight struggled to sit up, but flopped back down, weakly, lips wet, voice thready “Where's Laurent?"

...where was...who? Oh, Gods and all the Hells. The boy’s brain was fried.

The Marshall cleared his throat, and pushed the fine hair at the peak of Ren’s forehead back "They're. Not here right now." He swallowed, but kept his tone steady “But I am.”

The knight’s mouth fell open. He was staring at him as if – as if. Hux didn’t know "You're awake." Ren took his shoulders and squeezed, harshly, his shakes beginning again "Hux... You..."

The Marshall swallowed, utterly lost "Of course I'm awake, you dim-witted brat, I-"

The knight threw himself upon him, enfolding Hux’ entire torso in an embrace so crushing he was sure he would suffocate "Ren...?"

The fan of Ren’s lashes against his neck was damp, again. He HAD to stop doing this "There, there." The Marshall patted the knight’s head, awkwardly, praying for AIR "What's this about?"

"You LEFT me." Came the muffled accusation.

Hux blinked. What the kriff? "I did not!"

"Did too." Ren sniffled. The big baby.

"Oh for the love of-" this was rapidly getting out of hand "It's fine. I'm fine. I'm here, so. Desist that blubbering at once." The Marshall clarified, cast adrift on foreign shores "Please."

At his feet, BB-9E trilled an aggravating series of beeps and wails. Hux winced “What the kark is it, droid?!”

“He SAYS, he thinks he’s found a record of what that shiny piece of kriff is.” Strife said, as he swept back into the room carrying fresh clothes and dragging a harassed-looking medi-droid.

Now that he thought of it, it would be good to get Ren clean and into some clean fatigues. He was an immeasurably vain manchild, and a refresher and combing would likely calm him. It usually did. 

The Marshall squeezed the Knight’s shoulders, gently “Ren, lie down. Ah-!” Ren promptly threw an possessive arm over his waist, pinning and crushing him “That hurts. Not so hard.” Ren flinched, and relented. His eyes drooped – thank Palpatine for that “Yes, good.”

BB-9E trundled into the centre of the room while the medi-droid began meticulously scanning a wary, if exhausted, Ren. 

The former astromech-droid began projecting a confusing blur of images and archaic lettering. Captain Strife rubbed his chin with his fingertips “The Infinity Bridge?” BB-9E wailed what sounded like an affirmative “An ancient Sith artefact...thought lost. Uhm...BB, that seriously all you got?” 

The droid’s camera lens dipped, and it made a low, cooing noise. Strife leaned down and rubbed it’s carapace, gently “Don’t worry. I’m sure Renben will be fine.”

Hux stared at his clone, deeply suspicious “...when did you learn to speak Droid Basic?”

“I’m vastly intelligent.” 

“I don’t believe that for a second.”

“Fine. I downloaded an app.” Strife sighed and swept his hair back, irritated, in a motion eerily reminiscent of Hux himself when he was in a mood “...Marshall.”

Hux did not reply. Kept his eyes fixed, firmly, upon Ren’s dipping eyelashes. 

“This is way out of our league.” The clone said, quiet. Delicate. Hux, still, said nothing “Sir.” The Captain bit his lip “We should call them.”

A bone-deep shudder shook the Marshall’s frame “No.” 

“But-“

“Not yet.” The Marshall snapped, tracing the fine, soft curl of Ren’s eyebrows “We’ll wait. We’ll see.”

Ren didn’t need THEM. Hux was sufficient. They did not need anybody. He would find out what was wrong with the Supreme Leader, he would resolve it, and everything would be just PEACHY. 

To Strife, he simply snapped, coldly “Leave us.”

The Captain stomped out, and, if he had been capable, would no doubt have slammed the door behind him. Petulant brat. 

It was quiet, save the soft hum and whirr of the droids. 

The Marshall pressed the coarse pad of his thumb against Ren’s smooth temple “We don’t need them.” He murmured, lowly, as though snatching control from the jaws of some rabid, uncontrollable force, pulling them, irresistibly, away “We don’t need anybody.”


	4. Amorous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N: In which Hux has to face some uncomfortable truths, Ren is even more confused than usual, and Strife is just so done.

The thing about life upon a starship, was that there was little sense of night or day. 

You orbited the planets, the suns, the moons. You are the central pinpoint of the universe, not those great balls of energy boiling away into emptiness. They revolve around you. That used to bring Hux comfort. Make him feel powerful. Not now. 

Now, it made the endless drag of feverish hours ever more excruciating. Ren’s dark eyes had turned black, sightless and glassy, and his breath rattled in his throat as though drawn over a bedrock of glass.

The Supreme Leader continued to deteriorate. The knight uttered pure nonsense. Sometimes, he could barely form words. The BB unit whirred and fretted and searched endlessly through databanks for something, anything, pertaining to this...Infinity Bridge. There was nothing to be found.

The Marshall bundled a barely conscious Ren into the horizontal refresher, and drew him a bath. The knight loved baths, although the remnants of his training made him suspicious of ‘frivolities.’ 

Hux attentively rubbed a rib-weave flannel, damp with healing salts and sweet-smelling soaps, over Ren’s pale skin. Scrubbing just a little too roughly, as he knew the knight liked. Liked the pink rawness of his skin after, the sense of shedding a layer. Of rebirth. Hux had thought it fanciful, at the time. The man’s flesh had a soft, pliable give to it atop all that muscle. 

“He’s here.”

The Marshall started, dropping the flannel abruptly. Cleared his throat and leaned up on his knees, elbows resting on the ivory edge of the tub. 

He cupped the knight’s chin with a damp, warm palm “Ren?” two dark eyes fluttered then flitted, across, to hold his gaze “Nobody is here but us.”

The knight’s belly began to curl and cave, his ribs heaving. Ren’s nostrils flared and he curled long fingers in his own hair, trapping it within fists “He is. He IS.”

The Marshall exhaled, slowly. Covered the Supreme Leader’s hands with his own “Who, sweetheart?”

Internally, he winced, heart slamming against his ribs with a sick sensation of falling. AGAIN with that treacherous word. He would not condone it. He would not condone this – lack of CONTROL. 

“Snoke.” Ren whispered, in a voice like a broken child. 

...what the...? Perhaps that infernal device had simply – taken Ren’s nightmares and brought them to flesh, again. Ren had alluded to the wrinkled old cretin, coming to him in his dreams since infancy. If so – there was nothing to truly be afraid of. Good. 

With renewed determination, Hux cupped the knight’s cheeks and pressed, insistent “Ren. Look at me. Supreme Leader Snoke is dead. You killed him. Remember? You told me.” And hadn’t THAT been an interesting confession...? “You cut him into pieces.”

It happened in a moment.

The Marshall was knelt, bent uncomfortably, over the lip of the tub. And then, with a single sweep of his eyelids, he’d been grabbed by the neck and SLAMMED, prone, on his back into the water.

He inhaled, tasting nothing but thin liquid and chemicals. He kicked, chest burning, blood HOWLING in his ears, no, NO, Ren, let me up, let me UP-

He dug his nails cruelly into the crease above the knight’s eyeballs, and the man howled and released him. 

Hux surfaced and choked, throat raw and ragged, hacking up spittle and thin threads of blood. He shook, although the water was lukewarm. His clothes billowed and blew in the slosh and chaos around him.

Ren scrubbed at his eyes like a tired child, blinking up at him, bloodshot. His eyes were, once again, brown. Alert. He stared down at him with dawning horror “...Hux?”

As though he had not recognised him, at all.

The Marshall was suddenly LIVID. How dare he?! How dare he toss him like a brute and then turn on the sad eyes and PENITENCE! Ignorant, stupid-

Ren dipped his head, lips wet, and Hux’ ire popped and dissipated like a pustule “I-I’m-“

The Marshall thrust up an expectant, dripping hand “Sorry, yes, I know. Come, let me up. And back to bed with you. That’s quite enough excitement.”

Ren suddenly snatches for him, hulking and naked. Wraps the pale pistons of his arms around Hux’ waist, and drags him flush, shivering. Buries the dank hook of his nose against the Marshall’s neck, and inhales. 

“I won’t let him have you.” The word’s are low, solemn and vigilant. Hux squirmed his chin free from the cage of Ren’s arms, and pressed his lips against the other man’s bemused. 

There’s a tentative knocking on the door, and the quiet clank of metal digging into the carpet. The Marshall sighs, stroking a palm soothingly against Ren’s tense arms “It’s just Strife. DON’T attack him, this time.”

“...everything alright, sir?” the Captain hesitates, then comes over at Hux’ beckoning to take Ren’s other arm, leading him back to bed “Why are you all wet?”

“Decided to take a bath together.” The Marshall answered, grimly. Strife shot him a look that implied he didn’t buy it for a single clic. 

Hux swiftly dragged a sleep robe about Ren’s shoulders, jealously guarding his nakedness from Strife’s gaze. Not that the clone hadn’t seen it before...not that he would covet Ren, if he did. Strangely, the Captain seemed to have a taste for ladies. 

Hux shuddered at the very THOUGHT. Women were soft, and clever, and downright dangerous. 

He set about swiftly and neatly combing Ren’s hair, lips quirking as the knight relaxed, perhaps only out of habit. Strife set a tray stacked with a vast variety of supplements and true food upon it. Soft bread, sweetmeats. Some fruit gel packs and water.

Hux settled Ren under the sheets, propped against some pillows, and eyed the tray. Whoever had set off that device – it amounted to an assassination attempt. No chances would be taken. 

“Captain.“ the Marshall gestured to the entire tray “Taste this. All of it."

To his credit, Strife did not so much as hesitate "Understood."

Then again – this was what the clone had been born to do. Be crippled, be maimed. Have pieces of himself picked off, or eradicated, so that Hux and now, Ren, would not be. 

After several long tics of the Captain meticulously sampling each and every item on the tray, they sat, in eerie silence, and waited for death.

Strife stretched and yawned once sufficient time had passed “...well, I’m not frothing at the mouth or bleeding from the eyeballs, so.”

“Pity, that.”

Instead of sniping back, as he usually did, the Captain rests his elbows on his knees, and cupped his chin between his hands. 

"Do you love him?" he said, very suddenly, over Ren’s quiet breathing "Sir."

The Marshall flinched as though electrocuted, and said, automatically, without thought "We are not men who love-"

"Anyone can love.” Strife interrupted, his one good eye bright and focused “Well. Most corporeal lifeforms." He rolled his shoulders, his armour creaking gently "Do you just choose not to?" 

Hux can feel his heart in his throat like it’s trying to choke him. Eventually, he grits out, around the throttle of blood “I need him.”

Strife snorts, disbelieving "You need me. But it's not the same as..."

The Marshall stands, abruptly, stomps over to the dispenser unit to pour himself a ration of water "I don't NEED you. You're useful to me."

"You’re so full of bantha shit." His clone replies, cuttingly, and rarely, Hux hears himself in the other man’s voice "Denial isn't just a mountain formation on Hoth."

The Marshall hurled the half-full glass at the wall, where it shattered into a dozen penitent pieces "Why is my love lif- personal affairs of such strenuous importance to you?!"

Reflected in the mirror-like surface of the dispenser, he sees the Captain roll one shoulder in a shrug "Because I'll never have one. Call it morbid curiosity."

Hux reminds himself, with some difficulty, to breathe. Drags his fingers away from the smooth handle of his blaster. Don’t be rash, now. 

"True." He whirls on the younger man, feigning indifference "I'm surprised you think upon such things."

"Me too. I'll die young."

"So why dwell on it?"

"Boredom? Aggravating you is my most cherished pastime?" between them, the indomitable curl of Ren’s bicep twitches, the muscle spasming like that of a skittish horse "Admit it. He's different."

The Marshall nurtures that ever present ember of cold that sits in his chest, nourishes, guides him "I need him. To accomplish my goals.” He replies, simply: for it is, simple “We have coital relations. That's all it is."

The Captain rolls his good eye and stands, abruptly, stepping towards him with breathtaking impudence "You need me. You wouldn't ‘have coital relations’ or whatever the feth ever with me."

"You come at a cheaper rate.” The Marshall spits with contempt “You don't need constant oiling to buy your loyalty." His lips peel back from cruel teeth “And I may be narcissistic, Strife, but if I want to pleasure myself I have two perfectly functioning hands.”

Strife wrinkles his nose and looks, painfully, his age “That’s disgusting. You’re a dirty old pervert.”

“I am NOT old!”

“Older than me.” 

Ren makes a soft, high noise in his not-quite-sleep. The Marshall’s hands flinch, immediately, towards him. Caught. Strife frowns "He's in pain."

"Yes." It’s all Hux can say. 

"That bothers you."

"NO."

The Captain throws his hands up, and stomps over to the bench beside the door with unnecessary force "You won't appreciate the irony of this, but. Grow the kriff up, Marshall.” 

Hux stands, and stares, mouth agape. For the first time in a very long time, he has no words. 

The Captain sits back in his chair, retrieving his blaster and setting it across his knees. He looks as weary and worn as the Marshall feels “You should sleep, too. I’ll keep watch.”

...yes, Hux muses. The time for words is over. He sets his mouth in a grim line, and nods, slowly “Yes.” Sits heavily down, beside Ren’s pelvis “And, Captain?”

Strife glances up: the Marshall regards him coldly from beneath lowered lashes “Execute Order 92.”

The Captain inhales, sharply, and salutes “Understood, Marshall. When will you want to begin?”

“0600 clics.”

“Who first?”

The Marshall leers, and the force of it splits a chap in his lip, spilling a drool of blood “All of them.”

He strips himself of boots and outermost layers while Strife makes the discreet arrangements. He feels, down to the marrow, bled dry. This cannot continue. He cannot fix Ren. He finds himself resenting the man for it. 

He leans down; presses his lips against the soft dip between Ren’s cheek and nose, against one of those strange, unique, discoloured spots there "I didn't want to have to do this. Why are you making me do this?"

He has no choice. 

"Captain. Give me the beacon."

Strife trips and cusses, before sitting heavily down on the floor, tugging his left boot off, and pawing at some hidden mechanism in the vestibules of his artificial limb. Hux’ eyes narrow to slits. 

"...you keep, the most important device the Supreme Leader has EVER given me..." he said, slowly, ominously "In your leg."

The Captain tosses him a sheepish glance "It’s very clean? And tough to lose it. Hold on a tic." Click! Whirrrrrrr “Aha! Here.”

He holds it out. It’s tiny, clammy, and, at first glance, seems to be carved from simple petrified wood. Ebony, and heavy like a stone. The Marshall brings it to his lips, hesitates. Then blows, hard.

If a whistle sounds, it is utterly silent to their dumb ears.

He lets his hand fall to his knees, and feels...defeated. The Captain resets his leg, and shuffles over, sitting beside the Marshall’s feet on the floor like an attentive pupil.

“Do you think they’ll come?” he asks, voicing the very fear Hux will not acknowledge from himself “Do you think they’ll even hear it?”

The Marshall inhales, wearily “Oh, they’ll come.” That’s...rather what he’s afraid of “They are his Knights, after all.”


	5. Ménage à trois

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N: In which the Knights of Ren come face to face with the Hux’ for the first time, and nobody is impressed.

"So how many are there, exactly?"

It had only been a few cycles, but already, Captain Strife was bored out of his finely-boned skull. (It was a lovely skull; he should really thank the Marshall for that. Good cheekbones, strong chin, all that). 

"Nobody knows." The Marshall answered, vaguely. He’d been monosyllabic for quite some time. Seemingly content to sit and moon over the Supreme Leader’s prone form like a lovelorn academy girl. 

Strife wasn’t jealous. He WASN’T. It’s just that Ren’s chest looked so – soft and squishy, but hard. Firm, like gundark mutton. 

The Captain huffed, tapped his foot, scoffed another protein bar into his mouth. It tasted like arse and carpet. But then, most regulation rations did. DON’T ask how the good Captain knew what either of those things tasted like, either.

"...where the kark did they come from?" he tried, again. 

"Not sure. Shut up, Strife."

The Captain rolled his eyes, hopped neatly to his feet, tipped over, and began doing an elaborate set of exercises "Well aren't you a wealth of information and cheer this morning."

The room stank. No, really. There was a hefty musk of sweat and bile and mucus that felt like it coated the walls and spewed out of the vents. It smelt like rot, like sickness. And then there was the bitter tang of the Marshall’s preferred Tarine tea, oh, and that stupid cologne he wore. Powder and pine. 

That smell was one of the very first things Strife could remember. Hux had been huge, then. 

The Supreme Leader stirred, and the Marshall’s head snapped up. Kylo Ren had been staring almost unblinkingly at the other man for – ages, now. His expression largely placid, his brow knitted, like a lulled baby. Hux was smoothing his three middle fingers carefully across the knotted scar on the Supreme Leader’s temple, over and over and over. Whatever he was doing, it seemed to be drawing at least a little of the man’s pain out, and away. Dissipating it into the thick air like vapour. 

“Ren once told me that they, like he, were former pupils of Skywalker.” The Marshall replied, belatedly “Presumably the ones he spared.”

Strife stared at his originator from his upside-down vantage point, mid handstand, and frowned “Spared?”

He had heard about the massacre, of course. Almost every lifeform in the galaxy with a functioning pair of ears and a mild interest in gossip had. But it was mostly bantha shit and rumour. Recent, but already like a fable from the old times. Intangible. 

“Mind your business, brat.” The Marshall snapped. Clearly, he wasn’t willing to engage in full disclosure. Strife imagined that most of what the Supreme Leader confided in the man was Extremely Super Secret on Pain of Death by Lava Beetles. 

(This was a real punishment: see clause 2,037 of the First Order Handbook). 

“Fine.” The Captain conceded, toppling neatly back onto his feet, winded "What's he doing?"

"Staring." The Marshall replied, tone soft as smoke, eyes transfixed on the man laid across his lap. 

Strife shuddered "It's kinda creepy."

The Marshall snorted "Welcome to the First Order." Huh, there was some truth in that. Hux traced a finger down the hook of Ren’s nose "It seems to calm him."

"Your face? He'd be the first." Strife scoffed, and barely dodged a well-aimed projectile for his trouble. Ugh. That was their last unbroken refresher cup...

They were rudely interrupted by the simultaneous beep of their communicators squawking "Grand Marshall, Sir! Unidentified ship approaching from 0.8 degrees portside."

The Supreme Leader jerked, wildly, as if trying to sit up. The Marshall hushed him, following Ren’s gaze out of the slim viewport window of his quarters. Strife glanced out, too, but saw only the usual endless expanse of dull, dull space. 

"Allow it to dock."

"Sir?" Strife blinked. Without clearance? He echoed the Lieutenant’s surprise. But, yeah, he supposed a slight grunt and a wink from Kylo Ren was all the authorisation anyone needed these days "Yes, Marshall, at once."

The Captain stood to attention in the ensuing quiet, awaiting orders. Heels neatly clicked and arse tensed tighter than a gundark’s snatch. 

"Go, Captain."

Strife’s shoulders slumped. So. He was to be dispatched to greet the vile magicians while the Marshall got to stay all tucked and cosy and fondling Kylo Ren’s plush body. The scales of universal justice were NOT tipped in his favour, this lifetime. 

Aloud, Strife simply replies "Yes, sir." And mutters as he stalks out "If I die, think only this of me. I'll find you in the afterlife and pour hot custard in your BOOTS."

The ship was...well, small.

And quite unimpressive. Strife wasn’t sure why, but – he’d expected pomp and flair. He didn’t know, big black spikes, or something? Large, pulsating crimson canons? It was hardly pristine, either. Looked to be many rotations old, with deep gouges in its bulkhead.

He had no idea the Order of Ren was so – shabby. Not that he was a snob, although, with Hux as a not-Father, perhaps his opinion was irreparably warped.

The docking bay was largely deserted, save for a few foolhardy onlookers, the many eyes gawking from the command pods above, and, of course, the droids. Strife had brought BB along for moral support. If worst came to worst, he could always toss the tin ball at the Force Freaks, and flee. 

The locks on the crooked edges of the door hatch slid, grindingly, back, and hissed. Beside him, BB-9E made a wild noise of alarm and scuttled behind the Captain’s metal legs with a resounding CLANG.

Strife pursed his lips “Some help YOU are.” There came a morose wail in reply “Yeah, yeah. I’m scared too. Hold me.” Except BB couldn’t obviously. No arms. 

He didn’t know what he’d expected. The unexpected...? But no, what emerged from the half-light was exactly what a drunk fortune teller would predict. A tall, lithe, clean cut of a figure, dressed all in black. 

It was shorter than the Supreme Leader by about a head, and thinner. It had less skirt to its robes, but wore instead close cut leggings and two single, thin flaps of material down the front and back. It was obviously wearing shoulder-pads, too. Strife, modelled genetically after a man whose shoulder breadth could at best be described as ‘scrawny’, could relate. 

The figure strode down the length of the gangplank in three long steps, and halted, abrupt and blank faced, right in front of Strife.

Well. Obviously, blank-faced. It, and the two figures emerging behind it, all wore the trademark black helmets. Variations in shape, size and design, of course. But largely aligned to the ugly bucket the Supreme Leader had once worn. 

"This is it?" the first Knight said, in a voice like cut ice. It was un-modulated and, distinctly, female. 

She didn’t volunteer any name. So Strife decided to christen her, rather unimaginatively, Lady Bucket. 

"I could say the same to you, knight." He replied, bristling. Everything about the approaching figures set his teeth on edge. Hells, his EVERYTHING on edge. 

The two that followed the first were absolutely enormous, and walked in eerie, symmetrical tandem. Taller even than the Supreme Leader, by at least a head, and just as broad. Like the great, silent sentinels sometimes depicted in Imperial artworks. 

"You're a clone." Lady Bucket observed, flippant. 

Strife’s renowned temper flared "You're wearing an ugly bucket on your head." He snapped, then smirked rudely at the following silence "Oh, I'm sorry, I thought we were playing 'state the kriffing obvious' POLO."

She didn’t seem fazed, but how the hell would the Captain be able to tell?!

"Identify yourself."

The Captain struck to attention, out of respect for the Marshall’s reputation, more than anything, and delivered a regulation greeting "ST-4173, Captain Strife. Welcome to the Resurgent.”

The knight emitted a muffled huff of air that could’ve been anything. Derision – laughter?

"I am Mara Ren." She stated, smoothly "Vice Commander of the Knights of Ren."

They had a hierarchy? Huh. Strife hadn’t expected a group of disorganised goth-hippies to have bothered to sift the brain from the brawn. 

"That's nice. Where's the rest, then?" the Captain asked, glancing over the two enormous knight’s shoulders (swiftly nicknamed Double Trouble). 

"Not here." Lady Bucket clarified, usefully. Then “One more will arrive, in six cycles. The others...will take longer.”

Oh, well, that was just kriffing great. Just enough time to put the kettle on and have a cosy how-de-do in the kriffing LOUNGE. Strife gathered the thin threads of his patience about him like a shroud, and spun on his heel "... Well. Come on then. I'll take you to the Supreme Leader." 

They followed without a word, thank all seven hells. 

“Ah, Captain.” The Marshall greeted, all business, when Strife sounded the tone for the quarter’s door. He’d taken what scant time he had to change into full uniform, though not dress. His greatcoat lay discarded over the Supreme Leader’s chest like a possessive carcass. Smooth, Hux. 

“...only three?” he noted, freshly plucked (oh, Strife could TELL) eyebrows meeting one another in the middle of his forehead with a genial BUMP.

“The rest, presumably, got stuck in space traffic.” The Captain deadpanned, lips quirking. 

Then, suddenly, he was on his knees, winded, the skin of his left cheek searing with PAIN. What the KRIFF- 

“Watch your TONGUE, boy.” Mara Ren growled, in a tone like broken glass dragged through fat. Her right fist was raised, lofty and mocking. 

Did- did this motherfething CRINK just- backhand him?!

The Marshall stepped forward, face bloodless with rage and teeth gritted “Careful, Knight.” He said, softly, in a tone Strife knew usually precipitated the adding of the assailant to a very short assassination agenda “That’s my property you’re abusing.”

Ah, it was good to be in favour. The Marshall didn’t help him up, of course, the cad. Strife gathered himself and slid, nursing his wounds, behind his originator. 

“I am Grand Marshall Armitage Hux, of the First Order.” Hux stated, cool, careful, and free of his momentary lapse of courtesy “This is Captain Strife, my-“ yeah? What? “My second.” 

...huh. Second what?

“Well?” Hux snapped, clearly running low on patience after that little – display “Did Ren never teach you manners?”  


Lady Bucket inhaled, slowly, and the leather in her gloves creaked. 

“I am Mara Ren. Second Knight of Ren, and Vice Commander to our Master.”

The Marshall snorted, and managed to channel a truly impressive amount of disdain into his reply “Beta female, mm.” His gaze flitted to the still silent pair stood just behind her “And the rest?”

“Phobos Ren.” One said, in a voice like low thunder, as the second also said “Deimos Ren.”

Hux tossed Mara Ren a dismissive look “Twins?”

Beneath the jut of the Marshall’s greatcoat, the Supreme Leader made a soft, high noise. 

Something flew past their noses like a hot wind, and Strife blinked, mouth falling open. In a split-step, Lady Bucket had shoved past both he and Hux as though they were made of paper, and fallen to her knees beside Kylo Ren’s prone form. 

"Master!" she hissed, with fervent passion, and cupped the Supreme Leader’s long, pale fingers between her trembling hands "Hush, Master. It’s me." 

Then, very, very quietly “It’s your Mara, Ben.” 

Strife winced. Hux flinched.

The Captain thought, prophetically: well. This is all going to end in tears.


End file.
